Once There Was a Piemaker
by Morelenmir
Summary: Sam takes Dean out to lunch and introduces him to the best damn pies on Earth. Dean calls Castiel to introduce him as well. Later Dean trips down memory lane, visiting Lisa, Ben, Bobby, and Mary, while Cas pays a visit to the piemaker and subsequently introduces all of Heaven's armies to the miracle that is good pie. Now with crack-induced alternate ending.
1. Once there was a piemaker

"Feel the Love" contest over at DeanPicksTheMusic on deviantART + The Pie Goddess + Valentine's Day = one big "I couldn't resist" piece of tasty schmoop. The working title was seriously "Rotten Teeth".

Right now I have to apologize to the Pie Goddess, Suzie Sidhu, for probably mangling her and her pies, and point out that she is a real person (_crap_, does this mean I've written RPF?), this is a real place, and I really want to go there. I've been craving pie for a freakin' week because of this story. I have not been to the cafe or her bakery, so there's a little creative license and spinning going on here. Apologies to anyone who's ever been there!

* * *

Sam Winchester pitches a balled up napkin at the other man in the cramped motel room, bouncing it off spiky light brown hair. "Hey." The young man cuts his hazel eyes at Sam with a halfhearted glare and grunts, tucking his nose back into a dusty book.

"Dean."

No response, no shift in posture to indicate he hears Sam. He flicks his ballpoint pen expertly and hits his older brother in the left ear, provoking an exasperated "Ow" out of Dean Winchester.

"C'mon, let's get some lunch." Sam has already pushed to his feet, rising to his impressive 6'4" height, and he grabs his cell phone and black leather wallet off the table by Dean's hand, double checking the time displayed on Dean's sturdy wristwatch. "I know a good place in town."

"There's a diner a block away." Dean's voice is pointed, surly after hours of research with very little fruit.

"I'll cover it."

Dean's eyebrows rise and he studies Sam for a long moment. "It's rabbits-only," he says matter-of-factly, his tone dripping distaste.

Sam rolls hazel eyes; the reaction is practically involuntary. "I promise, it is not a salad bar." Suspicion is still in Dean's gaze as he stands, a good three inches shorter than Sam, and follows him out the motel door, routinely locking it behind them.

Seconds later an outraged squawk informs Sam that trying to take the keys and drive the Impala would be a painful lesson in futility, and he grumbles as he folds himself into the black classic's passenger seat, "Fine, don't need to eat my head, jerk." Despite his careful approach, he still hits his head on the doorframe and chin-length brown hair falls into his face. He brushes it away with an ungracious mutter and clears his throat, giving Dean precise directions through the streets.

Dean's expression after he parallel parks the sleek '67 Chevy is something to behold and if Sam were a much lesser man he would've quailed from the thunderous scowl the older man levels at him.

"A café? How much of a girl do you think I am?"

"It has good food," Sam bites back. The little restaurant is highly recommended, a local gem in Enumclaw, and he really hopes that the pie he's been told about is worth it; otherwise his ass is going to be chewed for a couple of days at least.

"Yeah, right." Dean jams his hands irritably into his leather jacket's deep pockets, directing a glare strong enough to scald at the charming café's heart-papered windows on the opposite street corner. "What the hell is a panini?"

Sam fights the urge to put the shorter man into a headlock and instead marches across Cole Street determinedly, not glancing to see if his brother is behind him.

Thirty-five minutes later Sam is starting to believe they are going to get thrown out.

"Oh. Ooooh God."

Sam Winchester shifts on the high-backed seat, grateful they have a corner table slightly removed from other lunch patrons. His brother's ecstatic sounds would probably make people…uncomfortable. Sam is more than slightly uncomfortable. He also hopes that they don't get banned or something like that from ever visiting Café Panini again, let alone stepping foot inside picturesque Enumclaw, Washington.

The euphoric expression on Dean Winchester's face surpasses any that Sam's ever seen, beating out the Magic Fingers (multiple incidents that Sam wishes he could forget) by a wide margin, and the sunny delight radiating off him matches the warm-toned walls of the café. His hazel eyes are shifting to a rich green, emphasizing just how far gone into nirvana he is.

Maybe this wasn't the brightest idea, Sam thinks and then snorts to himself. How often has that phrase been thought or spoken in conjunction with Dean? He toys with his cell phone awkwardly, brushes a strand of brown hair out of his eyes, readjusts the small bouquet of red roses in the center of the wrought-iron table, and freezes.

Oh God.

Dean Winchester, baddest mother in the valley, his self-proclaimed invincible big bro, just whimpered. Whimper like his knees had given out and he was currently supporting his six foot one frame with his chin, whimper like his muscles were lax with pleasure of a kind unimaginable, whimper like he was about to truly lose every part of himself and never find a way to the surface.

Sam kind of really wants to scrub his brain later. And all this because of pie.

At least Dean isn't actively making love to the pie on their table; he supposes he should count that a plus. Dean hadn't thought the pie would be any good, coming from an Italian restaurant and not a little diner, and he'd nearly drowned after he took his first bite of wild blackberry pie. Sam wishes he'd gotten a picture of Dean's face as his eyes had widened and then fluttered shut, eyelashes gracing high cheekbones.

Sam swings around to glance at the kitchen, hoping to see their waitress, Caroline, bearing his own slice of pie, and turns back without the welcome sight of the curvaceous waitress coming to break his awkward self-imposed silence. Running a finger down the chilly side of his tall glass, he plays with the candy striped straw before tasting the chocolate mint malt sitting before him. Eyebrows ratchet up in surprise and Dean spares a moment to snicker at his slack jaw of wondrous discovery.

"Everything here is good, man." He fills his fork with lush blackberries, salutes Sam with it, and disappears back into the pie.

Caroline swings by to gather their lunch dishes, a few bites of Dean's grilled chicken pesto panini left on his plate and Sam's plate empty of his herbed chicken and arugala panini. Dean had snorted and muttered something about Sam and his frilly food with fancy, unpronounceable names, lolling back in his chair and giving Sam a blasé smirk in reply to his slitted glance.

She bends over to snag Sam's salad plate resting on the far side of the table, leaning down a bit too far and Sam isn't going to protest; the view is rather fine and wholesome. "Enjoying the malt?" she breathes and he nods, remembering to look at her large blue eyes.

"Yes, thank you Caroline."

She pouts slightly, glossy lips plumping. "I feel you have me at a disadvantage, mister. I don't know your name."

"Uh, Sam. I'm Sam." Keep looking at her eyes.

"Sam, then." She stacks the trio of plates deftly and winks at him while she pivots.

As Caroline moves away, Dean hastily swallows his mouthful of warm berries, crust and cream, and asks, "Could I get another slice?" His eyes plead with her, working his version of the puppy dog eyes, and Sam coughs a laugh into his fist when she caves.

Dean appreciatively watches her walk back to the kitchen, all blonde curls and…parts southern a-bounce in her perky stride, and then demolishes the rest of his piece, silver fork chasing blackberries slathered in whipped cream across the plate.

By the time Sam finishes his slice of the touted "Cherry Almond Crunch" and is waiting for his second choice, lemon meringue, Dean is already working enthusiastically through his third.

"Cas, I found a piece of Heaven if you want it." Dean's tone is light, mumbled happily into the slice he's inhaling, eyelids falling as he savors the newest pie Caroline brought him, delighted with the effusive praise falling from his cupid's bow lips as he'd leaned eagerly toward the plate and sniffed the golden concoction she'd delivered.

"Where is it?"

Sam nearly sneezes his chocolate mint malt across their corner of the café when the angel speaks from just behind his left shoulder, while Dean lifts a blissful gaze to Castiel's sober blue eyes, a glowing smile erupting slowly over his face.

"Dude. Right here." Dean dips his chin to the right, inviting Castiel over. He walks to Dean's side, eyebrows pinched quizzically, rumpled tan coat brushing Sam's arm in passing.

"Dean, I do not under-" The angel's gravelly voice is broken off when Dean catches his arm and tugs him down onto the spare third seat beside him, confusion and surprise warring on Castiel's face as he rights himself and sits awkwardly on the chair.

"You said you have located a-" Dean promptly shoves a forkful of Butterscotch Lush into Castiel's mouth and Sam's insides quiver with amusement. Castiel's blue eyes open impossibly wide, mouth closed automatically around the silver utensil, and Sam can see his tongue working furiously, trying to taste everything in the intense explosion on his tastebuds. Dean slides the cleaned fork out and leans back against the window, a smirk curving his lips as he watches astonishment transform the earnest angel's face.

Cream cheese, butterscotch, praline candies, whipped cream and pulverized almonds…Sam had read the menu, noting the ingredients of each pie offered, and he wonders not for the first time what it's like for Castiel to eat something, taste it to its fullest extent. However he experiences it, though, he seems to be giving Dean a run for his money in the sheer enjoyment department.

Finally Castiel swallows, eyes fluttering shut with a slow breath drifting out parted lips. He remains that way for a few seconds and then he looks at Dean, pinning him with a sharp, questioning gaze.

"Piece a' Heaven, Cas." Dean's pleased expression doesn't offer any other explanation and Castiel's gaze fall to the flowery ceramic plate, studying the few bites left. Sam laughs when Dean tenses and draws the plate closer to him, glaring protectively at Castiel. He even moves the small vase of red roses between him and Castiel, as though the flowers would hold the determined angel off.

"Get your own pie," he growls threateningly. Castiel's eyes narrow and Sam glances between the hunter and the angel with a hint of alarm; they wouldn't seriously come to blows over a slice of dessert…who was he kidding, Sam knew Dean definitely would. He clears his throat meaningfully and leans slightly forward over the table.

"Hey, Cas," those ridiculously blue eyes shift and now they're penetrating him without expression, "just order a slice of your own." Castiel's head tilts a little and Sam grins, lifting a hand to beckon Caroline to their table.

"What can I do you for, Sam?" she drawls, dropping a rose pink-nailed hand on the wooden tabletop and winking flirtatiously at Sam. Sam's remotely grateful Dean is so ensconced in butterscotch he didn't throw a suggestive leer at the strawberry blonde waitress. Or him, for that matter.

"Can we get a menu for our friend here? Dessert, specifically," he says, jerking a thumb at Castiel opposite.

Slender eyebrows meet briefly in mild bewilderment. "Sure. Ah, I didn't see him come in."

"He just flew in," Sam says and he hears Dean snigger proudly, approving of Sam's terrible inside joke.

She swiftly produces one and spreads it before Castiel, who ponders it with as much gravity as he would ponder the mystery of a human soul. Caroline runs her pale blue gaze appreciatively over the angel's unruly dark brown hair and bared neck, bent over the laminate menu studiously, and says lightly, "Go ahead and take your time."

"I have already made my decision," he announces abruptly, looking up at her with his serious expression. Sam wonders idly if it's possible to trademark it.

"Oh…which one?"

"I would like all of them." Caroline gapes at him, not certain if he is making a joke, and the Winchester brothers have to cough loudly, turning away from both waitress and angel.

"A…a slice of each?"

"No. Entire pies." Caroline's rounded jaw is hovering just above her unadorned collarbone in disbelief while Sam and Dean begin to choke.

Clearing his throat several times, Dean says, "Just one slice for him, and maybe a few to go." Castiel looks at him slowly and Dean says sternly, "Only one," sounding for all the world like a mother keeping reign on her child. Sam nearly chokes again.

He also tells himself that Castiel, Angel of the Lord, warrior and soldier of Heaven, is not sticking his lower lip out petulantly at Dean as he stabs his index finger at a particular pie.

"Right, the Razzle Dazzle Raspberry." Caroline tugs the menu out from under Castiel's stationary finger, informs them that they can order whole pies 24 hours in advance around the back, and hastily departs.

Dean groans. "And now, Cas, sweet Caroline is too weirded out by you to make things sweet for Sam." Sam jerks and glares at Dean, who spreads his hands disarmingly. He hadn't realized Dean had noticed her flirting with him through his pie-induced haze.

Castiel and Dean engage in a stare-off, the former subtly inching closer to Dean and his plate, cradled in the tight circle of his arms, and Sam wants to bury his head in his hands and laugh. His very human brother and one of the most powerful beings in creation, locking horns over something as simple and ordinary as a few bites of pie; he shakes his shaggy head in amusement. What are their lives, for this to even happen.

Caroline left a silverware set wrapped in a napkin, its cloth a warm spill of gold as Castiel carefully tugs it open, meticulously removes the fork, and then regards Dean with a perfectly serious demeanor.

His still face all but broadcasts, "I have come for pie and shall not be deterred." Dean's eyes widen and he narrowly covers the pie with his hand in time to prevent Castiel from stealing some of it away. An errant ray of midafternoon sunlight darts through the large window they're seated beside, throwing a hazy spotlight over Dean and his raised hand casts a shadow over the dessert in question. Light bounces off the silver washer ring on Dean's right hand into his eyes, causing him to squint, and Castiel swoops in for a score the instant he senses Dean's loss of focus.

The sheer outrage on Dean's face and the absolute smugness on Castiel's, pointedly enjoying his bite, makes Sam snicker. He's also certain he's only ever seen Castiel smile once before, well over a year ago and under unpleasant circumstances, but this is a real smile, smoothing out weary lines and easing Castiel's face into a truly pleased expression. Sam watches the two feint and parry, Dean grabbing a butter knife to fend off Castiel's persistent advances, until a voice interrupts them.

"Here's your pie, sir, one slice of Razzle Dazzle Raspberry." Caroline perfunctorily sets the plate with a cherry settled atop whipped cream before Castiel and says to Dean with a more polite tone, "And here's your Peanut Butter Finger. Will your orders be separate or all together?"

"All together, please," Sam says and he is gifted a broad smile showing blindingly white teeth, the first smile since she re-approached their table. Poor woman had been apparently been somewhat rattled by Castiel's oddness.

"Alright then," she says, voice sliding back to a honey drawl. "Let me know when you're ready."

His smile is automatic, responding to her pleasant countenance. "Yeah, sure Caroline."

Her departure is notably saucier. When Sam returns his attention to the table, it's greeted by a smirk and wink from his brother. He rolls his eyes and Dean chuckles, dropping his gaze in amusement. It's lucky he does that because Castiel's fork is right there, in Dean's new piece of pie. He squawks and lunges for the angel's slice but his fork is batted aside effortlessly.

The battle resumes with Dean on the offensive and Sam sees his chance, sneaking his own fork toward the unprotected offering of Peanut Butter Finger pie. He's just dipping the tip into the pudding garnish when Dean's hand descends with a crack, flattening his fingers and causing him to drop the fork. Dean's hazel eyes are narrow and it sounds like he might be literally growling.

Lifting placating hands and leaning back upright, Sam glances at the angel. "Hey Cas, a bite?" Castiel's expression perfectly matches Dean and Sam nods. "Right. Never mind."

At last Dean gets his first bite out of his own piece of pie and while he is occupied, Castiel filches another bite, Sam following suit quickly. Dean huffs and grabs a bite from Castiel's plate, raising an eloquent eyebrow against the deadly blue gaze aimed at him. Sam grins at the antics and shifts in his chair to remove his wallet from his back pocket, tugging out a thick stack of bills.

"Dude, how were you even able to sit on that?" Sam opens his mouth and Dean runs over him, thoughtfully musing, "Well, your giant ass…probably had no idea it was there." Dean's unrepentant grin happily announces that yes, he is hilarious.

"Gotta work on the 'funny', Dean, you're still not getting it." Sam smirks triumphantly when he gets an affronted look from his brother. "And I'm paying, remember?"

"Where'd you even get the cash?" Dean asks, eyebrows knitting together.

"I earned it," is the careful response.

"When?" Dean's searching through recent memories, trying to recall when Sam would have acquired such a large sum.

"Traver's Bar, Yreka."

Dean nods as the realization dawns. "Yeah. You pool sharked a buncha guys there."

Sam shrugs, nonchalantly brushing off the grinned compliment. "Did alright. Got enough to pay for lunch and your excessive habit."

"Pie is important, Sammy."

"Yeah, I know dude." Sam holds up a hand, waiting to catch Caroline's attention. Soon enough she sees him and comes as quickly as she can. She passes him the bill, already prepped, and has small takeout boxes ready for the remainders of pie.

"Pay up front," she purrs, and Sam blinks at her sultry tone. He also finds a business card for the café under the bill. Dean guffaws and tries to cover it as coughing into his napkin when Sam flips it over and discovers a phone number on the blank side.

"Ah, thanks."

She smiles and turns away with a jaunty swing. "Oh, if you'd like to tell her yourself," Caroline says, pivoting quickly and pointing toward the kitchen, "that's the lady who makes the pies. The Pie Goddess." Caroline heads inside the kitchen and Sam glances across the table to see Dean's wide eyes.

"Be right back," he says, and is out of his seat like a bullet, cutting around tables to gain access to the woman walking to the side door. Sam has an idea where this is going and he's fairly certain he'll be embarrassed some way or another.

"Is Dean going to finish eating that?" Castiel points with his fork at the abandoned pie.

The younger Winchester snorts, "You'd better believe it." He begins to cautiously move Dean's pie into one of the brown paper boxes, scraping every last puff of cream off the plate.

"I believe he is mistaken; she isn't a goddess." Castiel is staring intently at Dean and the pie maker and Sam shakes his head, mane of hair tumbling into his face vigorously.

"It's just a title."

The look Castiel gives him is long and eloquent and he says aloud, "I see." _Humans are incomprehensibly odd_."

"Ma'am, can I marry you?"

Sam wishes his heart would stop beating so he could die of mortification, because there is no way he can squeeze his large build under the wrought-iron table. Castiel looks blank as always, once again befuddled by the peculiarities of the human race.

Dean is looking down—only a little, the sandy blonde woman is a scant few inches shorter than he is—with unabashed affection shining all over his face, and he buries his hands awkwardly in his worn jeans' pockets, rocking slightly heel to toe. She looks kind, a crisp white shirt hiding a dusting of flour and powdered sugar, braided hair just released from a hair net to frizz softly around her apple-cheeked face, and Sam wants to like her on the spot.

Suzie Sidhu, also known as the Pie Goddess, blinks up at Dean, hiding her surprise admirably well, and a small smile lifts her lightly wrinkled face. "You're a bit young for me," she says, a teasing note in her strong voice.

Dean ducks his head sheepishly, "Yeah," and Sam boggles. His brother is blushing, color spreading from high cheekbones to drift over his nose and tint his cheeks almost down to his jaw, ears pinking and lifting with his boyish grin. Maybe Dean won't notice if Sam snaps a picture with his phone.

"I wouldn't mind being adopted," he continues and Sam's phone slips between his fingers and he fumbles for it frantically, catching it in a massive hand before it strikes the hardwood floor. "I can live here and help you make pies and eat them and love you and your pies forever."

Suzie throws her head back and laughs openly and delightedly at his earnestness. Sam considers asking Castiel to smite him so he isn't around to witness the harebrained acts of his older brother.

"No, no, I'll stay here and everything!" Dean implores over her mirthful laughter. "Sam, can we stay?" Alarmed at suddenly being pulled in, Sam shakes his head quickly and Dean droops in exaggerated disappointment. Still chortling warmly, Suzie reaches up and settles a callused hand on Dean's shoulder.

He stills instantly and studies her gentle blue eyes. "Lots of people pass through here," she says quietly, "and you're always welcome back, son."

"It's just…I haven't had pie so good since I was four."

Sam blinks, computes that revelation, and comes up with an answer that shouldn't have startled him. Dean was four when their mom died. Suddenly, the logic behind Dean's fetish for pie rises up and smacks Sam right between the eyes and he blinks again.

Wow, he feels like ten times an idiot.

Suzie must have caught the echo of distant sadness in Dean's voice or face, because she moves her hand from his left shoulder to cup his cheek. "Then come as often as you can, my boy."

The moment hangs, able to swing either into something that Sam suspects might involve tears—why does his brother have to possess a spectacularly soft side or be so damned emotionally fragile?—or end in jocularity.

He prays quickly for the latter.

Dean drops his chin, looks at his feet, and meets her soft gaze. "You bet I will, ma'am!" he says brightly, sunshine smile dazzling her and three other people in the immediate vicinity. "It's a pleasure and an honor to meet the woman behind the pies."

"Suzie Sidhu," she says, her face mirroring his, and offers her hand. Dean takes it and, ever the charmer, kisses her knuckles once.

"I'm Dean and I'll see you again. That's a promise." Dean's voice is flirtatious but Sam knows him too well, reads his brother like an open large print book across the room. Promises were never lightly given and Dean would fight tooth and nail to keep them. Chances are Suzie would indeed see him again.

Suzie leaves and Sam beckons Dean back to the table, handing him a miniature tower of brown boxes while Castiel finishes his raspberry pie.

"We are gonna have to get a bunch of pies before we leave town," Dean enthuses, countenance glowing at the thought of yet more pie.

A small frown dips Castiel's chapped lips in a bow. "Whole pies can be ordered?"

"Yup," Dean confirms, "twenty-four hours in advance, then you can go pick them up."

"I will do that then." The brothers swiftly glance at each other, Sam raising both eyebrows, _Dude, your naïve little angel is gonna try to order food_, Dean cocking a single one back and thinning his lips slightly, _He's _not_ my angel_.

"Cas, hang on a sec," Dean says, lifting his voice with a quiet authority, and the angel obligingly halts to look back at him. "One, you know how doors work. I've told you over and over to just use the freaking door, knock, that kinda thing. Use them. People freak out when someone just hey, poof! appears in front of them. Two, reach inside your jacket and see if you have a wallet in there." Castiel's eyebrows draw together, but he does as instructed and quickly displays a blue leather billfold. "Yahtzee." Dean plucks it from his hand and flips through it, showing Sam the nice amount of greens with an impressed look.

He hands it back and says, "Okay, just remember: you gotta pay her. Now that's important—pay the woman the amount she asks for from the money in your wallet and make certain you get correct change."

"I am not a child, Dean," Castiel says stiffly, rare ire in his tight gaze.

Dean scrunches up his face in a shrug. "Okay. Oh hey, Cas…can you replace anything you take out of your wallet?"

"Yes." Castiel's drawn out reply indicates he's not entirely positive he knows why Dean likes that so much, but he's sure enough he should probably ignore it.

"Go then, go, go," Dean waves him on.

Before the angel has a chance to resume progress, Sam asks, "What are you going to do with the pies?"

The look Castiel fixes him with is sincere as hell, or Heaven in this case, and he says simply, "There is an expression of Heaven to be found in Suzanne Sidhu's pies. I wish to share them with my brothers." He lifts and drops his slim shoulders in an uncommon shrug. "Perhaps the reminder of celestial peace in the sweet taste will slow the fighting, bring back some of the accord of old." He turns his back on the brothers and walks through the café to the door and exits in a human fashion.

Sam and Dean look at each other. "Pies for World Peace?" Sam offers.

"Who knows, Sam." Dean glances out the café window and he smiles, crow's feet appearing around his eyes. He laughs and spreads his hands, "It just might work."

Sam is thankful they're only taking three slices of pie because the amount of struggle Dean is having with them is ridiculous. Granted, he should expect that behavior what with Dean's doped out expression as he clutches the precious boxes to his chest. He sighs to cover a chuckle, pays the short brunette cashier at the front of Café Panini, and knocks Dean lightly in the side toward the door.

"Happy Valentine's Day!" the young woman calls out cheerfully, eyeing the two men as they make for the door, juggling brown paper takeout boxes between them.

"Yeah, uh, thanks!" Sam calls back, swinging outside into the crisp February air.

"Wait, it's Valentine's Day?" Dean hisses, ducking his chin and glancing up at Sam from the corner of his eye.

"You're perfectly aware of what day it is, Dean, don't give me that." Dean widens hazel eyes and Sam arches an eyebrow. "You've been toying with your phone all day."

His brother's eyes drop and Sam moves closer, bumping shoulders with him. "I just wanted to get your mind off Lisa and Ben for a bit."

"You tried to put me into a pie coma so I'd forget about them?"

"No, I tried to put you into a pie coma so I wouldn't kill you the next time you tempted me." Dean chuckles, but the sound is lacking in spirit and Sam nudges him again. "Seriously though, man. Just enjoy the pie and don't think so much."

Slowly, a smile curves over Dean's face and he lifts his head. "Dude, you are like the last person in the world I expected to ever tell me to eat junk food and stop thinking."

"Don't get used to it," he snorts. "Tomorrow we're back on." He checks both ways, like the grandma Dean endlessly accuses him of being, and strides back to the Impala a fuller and happier man.

"Sammy, you are pretty damn awesome."

Dean happily punches him in the shoulder and a broad smile breaks over Sam's face. "You know it."

"I'll even let it slide that they didn't have bacon cheeseburgers," he announces benevolently and a snort explodes out of Sam's chest.

"It was an Italian restaurant, Dean!"

Dean chuckles. "Whatever." He hefts the boxes and grins wildly at his younger brother. "Now let's hurry up and get back to the motel; I got me some pie!"

Sam faces the cloudless blue sky and laughs, deep and rich and delighted. Nothing would ever permanently change his brother and he's glad that they had this lunch, a small gesture of him giving something good to the most important person in the world, someone who has given everything for him. Nothing but Sam and Dean all the way.

He glances at Dean, trying to figure out how to get into the driver's seat while carrying the pies, and grins. Well, Sam and Dean and pie, maybe.


	2. It's the way it goes

An epilogue of sorts. Dean has some time to himself and he savors it with pie, remembering the few other times he's been able to sit down and truly enjoy a slice of pie

The Pie Goddess is a real person, Cafe Panini is a real place, and they all belong to themselves.  
Dean and Sam and Bobby and John and am I really gonna name everyone who appeared in this? Come on. Yeah, they belong to the Kripkeeper and the CW.

Oh, and the pie mentioned within _is_ this good.

* * *

Sam is taking a shower and Dean has the room to himself, and he knows exactly what he is going to do. Marking the page of the leather bound book he's been studying—albeit halfheartedly—he rises from the peg-legged table and silently crosses the room, light footfalls muffled by the stained carpet. His target is the mini fridge and his goal is concealed within. Pulling the small door open, Dean zeroes in on the foremost brown box, his mouth already salivating.

He takes the box out, bumps the fridge shut with his knee and slides hurriedly across the open space, sitting down on the queen bed closest to the locked motel room door and crossing his legs Indian style. Criss-cross, apple sauce sang the kindergarten rhyme he vaguely recalls. Dean lays out with unaccustomed ceremony a white paper napkin, folded in a triangle, and a plastic fork on top of the napkin, set on the florid bedspread above his right knee, and the box is centered before him, a perfect two inches from the napkin's edge and three from his legs.

A slow breath in, hold, release, and Dean opens the box. He was careful to not jostle their containers on the way back from lunch, didn't want to spoil or jar the slices inside. He's already eaten one of his two pieces since they returned to the motel and he'd been holding back on the second for a moment like this.

He wants to remember all of it.

Large artistic curls of whipped cream slide over the crust at the broadest section of the slice, decorated with crushed almonds; streams of chocolate sauce in slender latticework accent a hearty topping of a softer buttery cream; turning the box, he can see half the slice is composed of moist chocolate under the whipped cream; a heavy spread of a cream cheese concoction makes the final layer; and the thick crust underneath is soft and not too crumbly, obviously made from scratch. Chocolate and cream and crust and a gentle hint of cinnamon mingle pleasantly in an odor so filling Dean almost doesn't want to eat, just live off the aroma alone.

Now however, there isn't anything more to put it off and Dean gathers the fork, poises it above the pristine cream. He takes a second to swallow and then purposefully drives his fork down into the tip. It slips in easily, burying the tines, and he makes certain he broke through the crust at the bottom before he turns the utensil horizontal, a complete section of the pie displayed on the fork. Bringing it to his lips, he breathes in first, the comforting smell circling through him, and then he takes the bite in his mouth.

Hazel eyes bleed swiftly to green and Dean feels himself loosen, shoulders rounding gently as he sighs, relaxes, rolls the pie over his tongue experimentally. The whipped cream polishes away first in the mouth, followed by the soft cream topping. The crushed almonds linger, crunching into the chocolate, and oh, the chocolate. Thickened with flour and richer than any pudding or mousse he's ever had before, it doesn't slide over his tongue, forcing him to work at it, feel the overwhelming texture and taste of it. Underneath the chocolate the cream cheese and crust mash together, flaking and flavorful, and push into the chocolate. His mouth is so full of pie and saliva and bliss Dean is glad he didn't take a larger bite.

He closes his eyes and picks the pie apart meticulously, savoring each individual taste. He might laugh at Sam's OCD tendencies, but he has routine. It is not very often that he has the time and peace and willingness to do this, yet now he does and he takes advantage of it

The last time he'd done this was eight months ago. Lisa was gone for the weekend and Dean and Ben want to make her a surprise pie. Dean insisted you couldn't go wrong with a toothsome blackberry pie while Ben really wanted chocolate anything. They had come to a compromise, predictably agreeing on chocolate blackberry pie, when they couldn't find a recipe for such a pie, so they decided to make one up from a chocolate pie recipe and a blackberry pie recipe.

It was disastrous. The kitchen looked like a giant bruise, mottled black and brown and purple and green—even now Dean's not sure what the green came from—and they burned the pie and their fingers and their tongues when they tried to taste it too soon. When Lisa walked in the door it was to the smell of burnt chocolate and Ben and Dean looking like they'd spread paint over themselves in camouflage. The two sat beaming proudly in a mostly clean kitchen, the crunchy dessert on the counter between them, and she had smiled and shaken her dark curly head.

That evening after Dean made the rounds—windows and doors locked, salt spread and traps complete and hidden under foot rugs—he slipped into the kitchen and flicked on the cooktop light. Sliding the failed pie out of the oven, Dean gathered a plate, a napkin, a fork, and a glass of milk, and he cut out a slice and plopped it on the plate. He had grinned at the squelching sound it made and put the pie away, tucking the napkin and fork into a pocket, and carried the glass and plate into the dining room.

Dean had sat down, back against the wall and facing the wooden table, and arranged everything in front of him. Folded into a triangle, a blue cloth napkin; resting centered on the cloth, a silver fork; situated directly three inches from the cross of his legs, a white ceramic plate two inches from the napkin; dampening a ring in the carpet two inches from the plate, a cool glass of milk held in a straight line from his left knee. He looked at the set up for a long silent moment and then slowly ate the pie. It tasted terrible, it really had, scratching down his throat, and he had to refill his glass, but he ate the whole piece.

He had made pie with a new family and the memory is sweet, tinged with an aftertaste of sorrow. Dean takes another bite of the Pie Goddess' chocolate pie and thinks about the time before Ben and Lisa, the last time then he had done this little ceremony.

He was sixteen, loud, brash and arrogant as the week is long. Dean doesn't know how Bobby put up with him for two weeks, never mind two hours. In retrospect he really should have been shot in the ass with birdshot at least a few times. John Winchester was off on a solo hunt and had dumped Sammy and Dean at Bobby's, leaving them with an old man grumpier than their father. Five days in and Sam had gotten sick, and the only thing he wanted to eat was pie.

Bobby had gruffly helped Dean make a small apple pie—best to keep it simple, he'd explained—and showed him how to kneed and turn the crust, make sure it was too thick and not so thin it'd tear. Dean had peeled the apples under Bobby's supervision and chopped them, occasionally snapping at him whenever Dean had thought Bobby was being too bossy. The two men, one young and one old, both exceedingly bullheaded, eventually got the pie into the oven, where Dean hovered for the next hour.

He'd also snootily informed Bobby that he doesn't hover, he lies in wait. Bobby rolled his eyes with the familiar refrain "Idjit" and left the kitchen, trusting Dean to know when it was done. Sixty-six minutes in the oven and Dean proclaimed it ready, quickly removing it and preparing a slice for Sam. The kid ate three and a half slices before falling asleep, a smile on his flushed face and crumbs everywhere.

Dean had waited until Sammy was deep in sleep before leaving the guest bedroom, taking the plate of leftovers. It was late and he suspected Bobby had already turned in for the night as he put Sam's plate in the yellow fridge and took a plate out of the cupboard. Dean hadn't tried his pie, _his_ pie, yet and now that the creaking house was mostly quiet, he had time to enjoy it.

The slice of apple pie on the blue rimmed white plate looked lonely, despondent, and Dean hadn't known why. He poked at it listlessly with his fork, trying to unravel the sad dessert's secret, when he remembered something. It was faint and warm and glowing, and Dean found himself digging through Bobby's kitchen drawers, hunting up a dinged silver fork in one drawer, a stained cloth napkin that had probably cleaned a few engines shoved in another, and lastly he'd poured a glass of milk and set it by the plate.

He sat back down and immediately frowned. Something still wasn't right. He played with the napkin, folding it in different shapes until one jumped out at him. The cloth was folded into a triangle, his brain identifying it as a right isosceles triangle, and it was good. Satisfied, he turns the long side toward the plate, setting the fork on it. Good, yet not all the way right.

His shoulders had slumped and Dean dropped his elbows on the table, plopping his chin into his hands, and he'd glared at the innocuous-seeming pie. Ten minutes passed as he wordlessly stared at the small setting, irritation prickling over him uneasily. Ten minutes and his head lifted, eyes staring out at a call he remembers hearing, and he took the dishes from the table and walked purposefully to the dining room. He set his back against the wall and slid carefully down, balancing the milk and pie. He'd crossed his legs and placed the chipped dish in front of him, the milk to the upper left of the plate and the napkin and fork to the immediate right. He spent a few moments squaring everything, subconsciously spacing them in exact inches.

This was right.

Dean blinks long-lashed hazel eyes, takes a startled breath. He remembers making his first pie over fifteen years ago at the request of his little brother, and the first time he'd ever slowed down to savor it. It all goes back to something, he supposes, and around the time he'd turned nineteen, why he'd done it so specifically came to him.

He takes a hefty bite, another, and he finds himself grasping for a glass of milk that isn't there. He curls his fingers back in from their reach and looks at them thoughtfully. There hadn't been a massive revelation, more of an internal "Oh. I see," when it had come to him. Dean had been taping up three fingers on his left hand when he paused, lifted his head and grunted, "Huh."

A long time, when things were very different—Dean smiles whenever he catches himself thinking in phrases like "a long time"—he remembers soft and glowing and warmth and when yellow didn't mean danger.

The memory's never been clear, instead about as pristine as a foggy morning. What he does see, though, are hands. Long, slender fingers, one encircled by a golden band, and a face framed by sunshine looking down at him fondly. A voice and laugh like bells and a royal blue apron.

Dean Winchester, four years old, adored his mommy. They played together and sang together and ate together. She wasn't as fast as him because her tummy was bumpy and she told him he's going to be a big brother. Dean liked the sound of that. That day her tummy was very bumpy and she made lots of faces as she'd slowly sat next to him on the dining room floor, holding a little plate with a treat just for him.

He watched raptly as she put the plate between their knees, flipped the napkin loudly to make him squeal delightedly and folded it by his right knee. He wanted his treat but his mommy told him to wait, it'll be yummier after we make it special, she said while blowing his blond hair out of his face, making his giggles come out. A lidded cup of milk went on the other side of the plate and she clapped her hands and said it was perfect.

Dean doesn't know what that pie was. Sometimes he thinks it was peach and others he is positive it had been apple; what he remembers most is his mother sitting across from his much younger self with a smile like an angel out of stories and her fingers smoothly putting the dishes into their places in front of him. It's where his love for pie began, at his mother's knee, and Dean jerks back to reality when he notes that he's eaten all of the chocolate lush, fork poking aimless holes in the cleaned box.

Chocolate is leaking out his pores and Dean doesn't mind that he smells like he was attacked by the Easter Bunny and lost. He closes the box after putting the fork and napkin inside quietly and they're in the garbage when Sam exits the bathroom, wet hair curling much to the younger Winchester's vexation. Dean laughs at him from the table where he is again tucked over the massive book and then grows quiet, flipping through the pages. Things were normal and he's had pie.

Pie and he go way back, almost as far as he can remember, and he sure would like it if pie sticks around.


	3. Heaven in these hands

I can't stop it. Feed me pie laced with crack.

* * *

Suzie wonders how she gained such…curious clientele. They appear to come from many walks of life, jostling one another, getting in each other's space without any displays of irritation or discomfort. They come every day, wait patiently—sometimes for hours—for a pie, then they each thank her solemnly and depart. She can tell some don't particularly like others, but it seems as though they are required to hold their tongues and be civil. Day in, day out, busier than she's ever been; Suzie's starting to consider opening her own bakery and move out from behind Café Panini.

There is one man who comes in regularly, once every two weeks on Thursday, and Suzie wants to mother him so intensely it surprises her. He introduced himself to her once, months ago, and she remembers the cool touch of his hand and the weariness in his shadowed blue eyes as he said, "I am Castiel." Whenever he arrives she finds a little smile on her lips, a little extra love in his pie. Most of the strangers treat him with unspoken respect, moving out of his path and inclining their heads slightly, while a few look at him with grudging deference. Occasionally someone clasps his arm and he turns, a swift and barely audible conversation, and then they move apart.

It's intriguing.

Suzie is also curious why they look at her, down to the last one, with such admiration and wonder. Castiel told her, after she asked and he hesitated, formulating a careful answer, "It is your pie." Her bemusement was plain and he added, "It reminds them, us, of home. Of better times." He was unwilling to speak any more on the subject and Suzie let it go. She still thinks about, however; several times she's been told why someone loved her pie, yet she's never beheld this kind of peace that she finds in their eyes.

The only thing she can really tell herself is that she makes these pies with love and they can taste it.

* * *

I like the idea of Suzie's little bakery filling with angels after Castiel starts spreading the message of her pies in heaven.

There is a cracky and kind of slashy alternate ending to the first chapter. Who wants to see it?


	4. Alternate ending

I have no excuses for this crack. It had to be done. An alternate, crackalicious ending to "Once There Was a Piemaker".

* * *

"So all one has to do to make Dean propose marriage is to make pie?"

"Not merely pie, Cas, it has to be heaven baked into a pie…preferably delivered with great legs and a skirt."

Sam isn't looking at Castiel when he spoke and therefore doesn't see Castiel's eyes narrow thoughtfully and then the trenchcoated figure disappear, a suddenly empty space opening up beside Sam. He turns toward Castiel and finds no one there; Sam blows out a breath and shakes his head. Typical. The angel has to secretly love his dramatic exits.

Five hours later the Winchesters are back in their motel room, Dean sprawled across the bed by the door and Sam bent over the ancient tome on the peg-legged table, carefully turning its pages and occasionally sneezing from the dust he stirs up. Sam had to take over driving after Dean drifted off the road twice and nearly hit a cat once because he was leaning across the Impala's front seat to sniff the boxes on Sam's lap. When he narrowly misses a tree and gives both of them a fright, although in Dean's case he was more concerned about damaging the car, he listened to reason, sounding suspiciously like Sam's insistent one-step-away-from-bitchface voice, and turned the car reluctantly over to Sam. Then he got high on pie fumes in less than ten minutes, walking sideways into the motel with a cheesy grin on his face.

"Dean."

As Sam straightens abruptly he notes that Dean, even with his honed Cas-dar, lurches in surprise too. He swivels in his seat to see a most startling image and cannot stop his jaw from cracking against the table's Formica surface.

Castiel is standing between Dean's bed and the door, facing both brothers, his expression as inscrutable as ever, his poise stiff with the broomstick up his ass. However, regularity ends there.

The angel's dark brown hair is streaked with a white powder, probably from running his fingers through it, that also dusts his black dress shoes. A purple smear starts on the left side of the bridge of his nose and continues over to mottle half of his right cheek; it really does bring out the intensity of his blue eyes. His customary tan trench coat is nowhere to be seen and Sam has never beheld Castiel without it, let alone without the black suit jacket he knows is under the coat—no, the only clothing he recognizes is the white-marked-with-purple-splotches dress shirt with unbuttoned sleeves cuffed up to both elbows, crooked blue tie drawing a familiar line down Castiel's chest.

And then there's the rest of his wardrobe. His black trousers are gone, revealing hairy legs with black socks straggling down from the knee, but Sam can't see Castiel's knees. They're disguised by pink lace attached to cloud-pink silk—real silk?—cloth that Sam's stuttering brain eventually recognizes as an apron. He prays to anything and everything out there with all sincerity he's capable of that Castiel is wearing something beside a shirt under the pink…thing.

He glances at Dean when he hears him choke, possibly on his own tongue, and Castiel shifts, faces Dean more fully. Sam gets a flash of a pink monstrosity of a bow sprouting from above his hips and a short, tight black skirt that ends definitely above his knees, covering only half his thighs. His brain turns over like a diseased car engine and fails to restart. Slowly easing down into his seat, Sam stares speechlessly.

Dean's hazel eyes are the size of the Impala's windshield and his mouth is half-open in astonished horror, watching the angel advance on him, and Sam thinks he won't be able to scramble away if he wants to, he looks so shocked.

"C-Ca-as?" Dean's voice cracks and there is no mistaking the flush reddening his skin, from his hairline to his gray shirt collar, the freckles fading into his rosy flesh.

"Dean," he says somberly, "I have made you pie." He solemnly holds out a tin topped with something fluffy and white to Dean. Sam's brain rouses itself enough to say, yes, there was indeed something in Castiel's hands earlier; its presence was simply overridden by the…absence of others.

A garbled sound trembles faintly in Dean's throat and he bolts like a terrified deer, vanishing into the bathroom in a nanosecond. The lock clicking echoes in the silent room.

Sam stares at Castiel, the closed door, Castiel again.

Castiel stares at the door.

"But he likes pie."

"It might've been the skirt, Cas," Sam manages, chewing vigorously on the inside of his cheek.

"A skirt was required along with the delivery of pie and I have observed that he prefers them to be short."

Sam decides that a chair isn't going to hold him much longer and he staggers to his bed, falls across it, and laughs until he can't breathe.


End file.
